


Valhalla over Heaven

by RuinNine



Series: Valhalla over Heaven [1]
Category: The Last Kingdom (TV), The Warrior Chronicles | The Saxon Stories - Bernard Cornwell
Genre: Hild Intervention, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Repressed Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 18:15:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19910062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuinNine/pseuds/RuinNine
Summary: Finan discovers that next to warrior and jester, there is a coward hidden inside him after all.





	Valhalla over Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> I wouldn't have posted this without the encouragement of my dear friend Lu, so this is a belated birthday gift. Thank you so much, darling! Also many thanks and salutes to Gimli, my loyal cheerleader (even though this is lacking smut xD).
> 
> Sadly, I'm not a native speaker. Also, I love the books and the series in equal measure, so this is a mash-up of both, with my own wishful thinking thrown in. Hope you enjoy it nonetheless! ;)

\\-|-/  
  
  
“Is there anything I should worry about?” Finan grunts non-committally and doesn't answer. “As the commander of this army, that is.”  
  
Finan turns to him then, the dark scowl on his face making way for confusion. “Lord?”  
  
Uhtred takes a swig of ale from his tankard, then inclines his head to the corner of the hall where Sihtric is busying himself with a whore whose name neither of them knows. He must be complimenting her, for her body language suggests she's agreeable, but across the distance they cannot hear what he is saying to her, only her high-pitched laughter. The week of celebration Guthred has ordered to mark Uhtred's return – and boost the morale of the army before they march on Dunholm – has reached its peak and the racket is obnoxious. But the monks, who sit by themselves in a huddle close to Guthred on his throne, are disgruntled and muttering about the pagan excess and Sodom and Gomorrah, so Uhtred is in high spirits.  
  
Compared to that, Finan's foul mood is a stark contrast and therefore certainly worth prying about. “If my best men are going to turn on each other in the midst of battle,” Uhtred begins in a pleasant tone which Finan has come to learn means serious business, “and try to kill one another instead of slaughtering Danes, I would like to know beforehand.”  
  
Finan raises an eyebrow. So the past few days of silence and cold looks between them have not gone as unnoticed as he’d hoped. “Well, what would you do about it?”  
  
“Kill one of them myself, so the other isn't distracted anymore.”  
  
Maybe not so serious after all. Finan's snort of laughter is lost in the loud hollering and raucous singing of the men all around them. The scowl returns when he looks back to Sihtric and his whore, only to find both of them gone. “There's no need to worry, lord,” he says and then tosses back the last of his ale. He's had enough of celebration for today. “I will wait till _after_ the capture of Dunholm to kill him.”  
  
“Finan.” Uhtred leans forward as if to hold him back, but seems to think better of it. “Is there anything-”  
  
Uhtred actually looks concerned. Which is so rare it's an extraordinarily bad sign. “No,” he lies and quickly stands before Uhtred can think of ordering the truth out of him. “Nothing at all, lord.”  
  
  
\\-|-/  
  
  
By morning, Finan's mood has not improved. If anything, it has darkened even further, and the rain pouring relentlessly from the sky and the cold winds howling through the streets of Eoferwic do nothing to lift his spirits. He is thoroughly drenched and shivering when he arrives at the king's hall for breakfast, and not up for anything that doesn't involve driving a sword into another man's gut. Clapa greets him with a whoop and a wave, shouting about leaving wet dogs outside, and he receives a sharp knock to the back of his head for his trouble.  
  
The giant of a man probably doesn't even feel it, for his grin doesn't falter. “Isn't Sihtric with you?”  
  
Finan pauses in the middle of reaching for the loaf of bread on the table, and finds most of the people surrounding it looking at him. There's Uhtred, Gisela, Hild, and even Guthred seems interested in his answer. “Why should he be,” he snarls. The mention of Sihtric sharply reminds him of the reason for his bad temper, and that the others assume them to be inseparable only serves to fan the flames. “I am not his keeper.”  
  
Clapa is either ignorant of that fact or has decided to ignore it in favour of saving the previously good mood from dissipating in the wake of Finan's black cloud descending on the breakfast table. “It's just,” he says with a shrug, “that I overheard two women talk at the market this morning. One of them claimed to have seen Sihtric sneak beyond the city walls with a woman, and that the night watch was not fast enough to catch them. The guards promised to seize them when they returned and bring them to justice. I thought he might have hidden under your bed to escape such a fate.”  
  
The tale is obviously wildly exaggerated, and it earns laughter from everyone who has been listening in, but something about the story doesn't sit right with Finan. Any other time, the joke at the end would have been enough to pick a fight with Clapa (only to lose spectacularly without the aid of any weaponry), but he doesn't even bristle at it. There is something else that doesn't add up.  
  
“And did they?”  
  
Clapa turns back to him, his white bushy eyebrows drawn together in confusion. “What?”  
  
Finan impatiently drums his fingers on the table. “Sihtric and that wench. Did they return?”  
  
“I don't know.”  
  
Clapa's voice tilts up at the end, making it sound like a question, but Finan is not even listening anymore. His instincts are rarely proven wrong, if ever, and right now they are telling him that something is very much amiss. Sihtric may be young and still wet behind the ears in some ways, but he is no fool. He knows that Kjartan is aware his bastard son yet lives. Therefore, Sihtric would not risk leaving the safe walls of Eoferwic, not at night, not with only a stranger for company, and certainly not now that the news of Uhtred and Ragnar assembling an army must have gotten back to Kjartan through his spies.  
  
“Finan?” Uhtred is on his feet now, his curiosity once again piqued by Finan's strange behaviour. “What is it?”  
  
“There is more to this tale.”  
  
“Finan, wait.”  
  
It doesn't really sound like an order, or at least one where disobeying would see him scolded, so Finan breaks off a piece of bread from the loaf and heads back to the door and to the rainstorm beyond. Uhtred's sigh is loud enough for him to catch. “Why bother investigating? It's fishwives' gossip.”  
  
But he is already on the threshold. “Well,” he tosses over his shoulder, “I would have the truth.”  
  
  
\\-|-/  
  
  
No one knows that whore. Finan has tried every tavern and every underhand brothel he knows in Eoferwic, and even a few he didn't know before but got recommended by the girls he questioned. The fact that no one can give him a name to her face doesn't have to mean anything in itself – an army gathering always attracts all kinds of folk in search of a quick coin, from blacksmiths and beggars to leather traders and cattle drovers. And the usual flock of out-of-town prostitutes.  
  
And yet.  
  
He still can't shake the bad feeling that something is very wrong, so after checking in with Clapa whether Sihtric has returned in the meantime – he hasn't – he goes to the market in search of the only other lead he has. It is blissfully easy to find the two women Clapa had been talking about, and even easier to get them to talk. With his sword and arm rings and armour, he looks wealthy enough, and probably also desperate enough, to award any information with a penny. Their hopes are quickly dashed, for he prods for more details with a hand on the hilt of his dagger and a dark expression rather than coins, but they are too scared of him to refuse him. Instead, they glower at him while they recount the story that Clapa overheard.  
  
“I know all that already,” Finan cuts in, impatience and anger itching beneath his skin. “Can you show me where they crossed the wall?”  
  
They exchange a cautious look and then mutely shake their heads. Finan huffs and tightens his hand on the dagger as if he were about to draw it, and one of them quickly yields. “We didn't see them. The guards did.”  
  
“Their names?” They shrug, as he expected, so he motions for one of them to follow. “You will help me find those guards.”  
  
She opens her mouth to protest, but then he finally tosses her friend a coin, and she snaps it shut again and hurries to keep up with him. Not that she is of any help. They ask around at the garrison and the crews manning the gates, but she doesn't recognize the guards that saw Sihtric and the whore leave the city, and none of the men know more than they do. In the end, Finan shoos the woman away with another penny clutched in her bony hand, and stalks back to the king's hall, empty-handed and bad-tempered. If that bastard has appeared from a warm and dry bed while Finan has been wandering the city in the ever-falling rain, he is going to wring his skinny neck.  
  
When Rypere appears at the crossing ahead, waving and shouting his name as soon as he sees him, he thinks that may just be the case, that Sihtric returned while he was still trudging through the muddy streets in search of him. Rypere spurs his mare down the path, scattering men and women and animals alike, but he doesn't pay any heed to the insults trailing him. He checks his horse next to Finan and quickly dismounts, thrusting the reins at him.  
  
“Sihtric?”  
  
Rypere shakes his head, then nods, his face serious and grave. “He hasn’t returned. But the guards that claimed to have seen him leave found something in the woods. Uhtred is waiting for you at the northern gate. He wants to see it himself!”  
  
The last word he shouts after Finan, because he has already mounted the horse, urging her up the street and through the crowd that has barely recovered from Rypere's attack. They don't dare shout at him, but he wouldn't care either way. Ever since he started his search this morning, a terrible foreboding has been nagging at him, growing in strength with every dead end he has dug up. And while he's hurrying towards the northern gate, towards the gate facing Dunholm, it is so strong it's almost choking him.  
  
  
\\-|-/  
  
  
The foreboding proves to be true, too. The guards lead them well away from the city, at least a mile up into the woods where they found the drenched remains of a camp of at least ten men. The rain has washed away many of their tracks, but the charred coals of a fireplace are impossible to miss, as are the marks where their tents stood and where they penned up the horses. Everything else is drenched, churned mud, and if there ever were hoof prints leading away in any direction, the rainstorm has long since washed them away. Which leaves them with nothing.  
  
Uhtred toes at the remains of the fire with an iron-tipped boot, then crosses his arms, deep in thought. “Think this is related?” Finan nods gravely, his stomach sinking. The _hours_ he wasted with his search in the city! “They can't have gone far,” Uhtred goes on, as if guessing at his thoughts. “Not in this weather.”  
  
“We’re going after them, lord?”  
  
The undisguised hope in his voice is impossible to miss, but Uhtred doesn't comment on it. He signals for the guards to mount and ride ahead and then pulls himself up onto Witnere's back. “Yes. You, me, Clapa, Rypere – no more. We will have to rely on stealth and speed.”  
  
“But we have no clue where they went!”  
  
“We take the quickest and safest route and hope they had the same idea.”  
  
Finan quickly mounts Rypere's horse and steers her forward until he is level with Uhtred. Usually, he would never object to following his lord through all the trouble and madness that frequently cross their path, but as second-in-command, it is his duty to give reasonable advice once in a while. As alien as it is to his impulsive nature. “You should stay, lord,” he says as they break from the trees and turn down the road to Eoferwic. “You are needed here. We could take Hild instead.”  
  
Uhtred turns in the saddle, and even though his eyes are sad, there is a smile playing at his lips. It is a very strange expression, but his words explain it. “You weren't there when I took Sihtric's oath.” A fond memory, it seems, now darkened with worry for his brother in arms. “So I will tell you what I told the crowd that witnessed it. Anyone who harms him will deal with me, and I don't intend to break that promise.”  
  
Finan inclines his head, yielding instantly. “Lord.”  
  
Well. He tried.  
  
  
\\-|-/  
  
  
They don't even have to summon Clapa and Rypere. The two warriors are waiting for them just inside the gate, fully armoured and armed, and Finan's mare Ida is with them. Rypere and Finan switch horses, Uhtred dispatches the guards with a message for Guthred and Hild, and then they are on their way into the freezing sheets of rain still falling heavily from the bleak sky. The clouds are dark and threatening and hanging so low that Finan can't help but wonder whether he could touch them if he just stretched high enough. The thought is ridiculous of course, but he is willing to think of anything but Sihtric – where is he, are they going in the right direction, is he even alive?  
  
He pushes those questions and the unease that clings to them back into a dark corner of his mind. Instead he focuses on immediate dangers as they cut through a patch of forest the road loops around: keep his horse from slipping in the mud, keep close to his brothers, keep an eye on the surrounding trees. He needn't have worried about the latter. No one accosts them on their trek north, and the only beings they meet on the road are an old man and his donkey, both drenched and miserable and fighting against the strong winds howling down the path and into the creek beyond.  
  
The man yanks his donkey to a halt when he sees them, and they must seem as spirits of the forest, appearing from the dark heart of the storm with their horses and cloaks and faces splattered with dirt. He sketches a cross in the air in front of his chest, trying to ward them off, but they simply ignore him as they circle past him and his frightened animal to continue down the road. Up close, the man can see they are no ghosts, but mere mortals, travel-weary and maybe trying to get out of this blasted rain just like he is, and he shouts after them with a sudden thought.  
  
“The creek is blocked!”  
  
Uhtred immediately signals them to stop, and he pulls Witnere around to confront the poor man, who is pressing himself into the side of his donkey, as if the animal could somehow serve as a shield against the angry warlord facing him down. He probably regrets his decision to warn them of the blocked passage ahead.  
  
“Blocked,” Uhtred asks, voice raised against the noise of the rain hitting the ground. “How?”  
  
It takes the man a few tries to get the word out. “Mudslide.”  
  
As the others busy themselves with turning their own horses, Uhtred peers at him from beneath his hood, but then he evidently decides the man is trustworthy in his obvious terror. “Is there a way around it?”  
  
The man nods, hesitantly, and raises a shaking hand to point to the right where, so narrow it could easily be missed even in clear weather, a thin deer pass winds up the steep meadows lining the road and disappears into the forest. “We used this before the rocks in the creek were removed for the road.”  
  
Finan eyes it for a moment, and then determines the path is safe enough for the horses. But they are not the only ones out here, trying to defy this weather. “Is there a place where we could wait out this awful downpour?”  
  
The nod comes quicker this time. “Yes, there is.” Faced with all four of them, the man is obviously trying to get rid of them as quickly as possible, lest they abandon their tiresome journey across country in favour of some amusement. “There is an old oak marking a crossing, after this path comes back down to the road beyond the creek. Take the right trail. It leads to a well, covered by a bank of rock.”  
  
Uhtred tosses the man a coin. “Thank you.” Then he steers Witnere onto the narrow path.  
  
  
\\-|-/  
  
  
“And?”  
  
The grin on Rypere's face should have said it all, but Finan can't keep from asking the obvious, trying to get him to talk already. His brother in arms pats his shoulder, then crouches low behind the thorn bushes that serve as their meagre cover. “One sentry beside the road, the rest at the well. Six men, and Sihtric.”  
  
“Alive?”  
  
The grin widens. “Alive.”  
  
Despite the unexpected good news, Uhtred frowns. “Only seven? There should be more.”  
  
Rypere, however, seems unaffected by this concern, and entirely sure of his observations. “By the looks of them and their horses, they lost a few men in the mudslide.”  
  
It’s Uhtred's turn to grin then, feral and full of bloodlust. He turns his face into the rain, eyeing the quickly approaching dusk. “I suppose they are wet and tired and complaining like a bunch of old women. Let's end this now before darkness falls.”  
  
They creep out of the thorn bushes in single file, with Rypere in the lead. He guides them through the light brush-wood lining the trail to the well, going slow so as to avoid startling birds or slipping in the mellow mud beneath their feet. At irregular intervals, rocks appear in the gloom, and they have to be ever more careful when circling them. The underwood crowds close to those crags and they have to keep a tight grip on the swords in their scabbards so they won't bang against the rocks and alert their enemies of their arrival as they push through whin bushes and big patches of nettle.  
  
It is in the middle of such a patch that Rypere signals a stop and turns to give last instructions in a low whisper. “After this, the rocks are too tight to circle around. They replace the forest along the trail for about ten paces, then there’s the sheltered well on the right. It feeds a small lake, spreading out to the left with the woods beyond. They will have to fight or jump into the water.”  
  
Which is a stupid thing to do when you are wearing mail. But the mercenaries were obviously too keen on a dry resting place to think about the disadvantages of their hide-out. Or they were simply not expecting any trouble. Sensing an easy slaughter, Uhtred soundlessly pulls Serpent-Breath from her sheath. “And the sentry?”  
  
“Posted across from us, on the other side of the road.”  
  
Uhtred nods in understanding, then slips past Rypere to take the lead. “We go past him, straight to the well, and kill all the men there before they can get a blade on Sihtric. Keep an eye out to the rear, in case the sentry joins the fight.”  
  
And then the Lord Uhtred jumps out of the shrubbery with a deafening war cry, and his men follow suit, swinging weapons and descending on the unsuspecting mercenaries like a horde of vengeful demons. Rypere was right, the mud caking their boots and coats suggest they narrowly avoided a gruesome death in a rush of dirt and water, and they take a second too long to react to the sudden ambush. Only one of them even manages to draw his sword, while the others struggle to get up on their feet, made clumsy by the damp cold weighing down their bones. They die right there, in a loose circle on the edge of the well – and in the middle of the mayhem, Sihtric folds his long limbs around the tight ropes holding them together and tries not to get in the way.  
  
They untied his hair. That is, strangely enough, the first thought that breaks the battle-haze in Finan's head as he sheathes his sword and draws his dagger instead to cut the ropes around Sihtric’s ankles and wrists. It is his first thought before he even notices they stripped him of armour, weapons and arm rings. They untied his hair, now stringy with dirt and rainwater, and it is much longer than Finan expected.  
  
Sihtric watches him slice through the leather cords with dull and tired eyes, and then he sighs in relief when the ropes finally fall away and he can stretch his legs and rub at his sore wrists. He says nothing. “Sihtric?” Finan can barely keep from reaching out a hand to touch him, but he doesn't dare. He couldn't bear it now if Sihtric shied away from him. “Are you hurt?”  
  
A quick shake of the head is his only answer, even though the blood crusting his temple and the corner of his mouth suggests Sihtric suffered more than a split lip and a blow to the head. Before Finan can insist on an honest answer, Clapa pushes past him and hooks his hands beneath Sihtric's arms to haul him upright and into a tight embrace. “Brother,” he bellows, and only Finan can see the pain on Sihtric's face as he is squashed against the big man's chest. “We missed you!”  
  
Luckily, Uhtred takes over for Finan. “Clapa, let him breathe.” He gives Sihtric a quick once-over, then a genuine smile. “It is good to-”  
  
The rest of his sentence is drowned in a sharp call of a horn, just beyond the lake. Startled, they all move instinctively to form a semi-circle with the rock shielding their rear, weapons pointed outwards. They strain their ears, but their heavy breathing and the murmur of the well behind them are the only sounds they can hear. The horn signal does not come again.  
  
“The sentry?” No one answers Uhtred, and that is answer enough: none of them killed him. “We have to get out of here. Clapa, take one of the horses for Sihtric, leave the rest. Rypere, scout ahead. Fastest route, straight back to Eoferwic. There's no time for cunning deceptions.” He turns back to Sihtric. “Can you ride?” Another mute nod. It seems to be enough for Uhtred, even though he trades a cautious look with Finan. “Good. Quick now, there's another battle waiting for us.”  
  
  
\\-|-/  
  
  
The rain has slowed to a barely there drizzle, and the soft wafts would surely feel good in the wake of a hot day of summer, but after spending hours in the freezing downpour, it is simply annoying. Besides, while they were able to quicken their pace when the storm finally let up, so were their pursuers, if there were indeed any. So far, they have no reason to believe the call of the horn had been answered by reinforcements, and no hunting party has caught up to them or blocked the path ahead. The night around them is quiet, or as quiet as a forest at night can be, the only sounds the occasional hoot of an owl or branches rustling as animals flee from the path upon their arrival.  
  
“Finan.”  
  
The impatient strain on Clapa's usually calm and unshakeable baritone probably means that his brother in arms has been trying to catch his attention for a while now, and Finan takes a noticeably too long moment to shake off his train of thought and twist around in the saddle to look at him. “What?”  
  
Clapa only flicks his head back in response. Sihtric's horse that had been trailing Clapa’s stallion for most of the way has started to lag behind their little rescue company, and the reason why is clear. Reigns slowly slipping from his slack fingers, Sihtric has slumped forward over his horse's neck. Even though he knows that the young warrior is merely exhausted rather than dead, something cold and painful settles in Finan's gut. The latter could just as well have happened, had they not caught up to the mercenaries. As soon as they had crossed the threshold of Dunholm, Sihtric would have been a dead man. Not instantly, of course. He would have died slowly and painfully, but died he would have. And there would have been no time to launch the army, no time to hatch a plan capable of toppling the insurmountable walls of Dunholm and save him. All that would have been left would be the simple truth that Finan was responsible.  
  
That thought once again derails his attempt at staying focused in the here and now, and Clapa – bless him – suddenly decides not to wait for a response and quickly dismounts to check on Sihtric. With a gentleness you wouldn't expect from a giant like him, he frames Sihtric's face, thumbs settling carefully against his pulse. His pleased hum tells Finan that a heartbeat is still there, and it unravels the knot of fear threatening to squeeze the air from his chest. Clapa is murmuring quiet and soothing words now that Finan cannot catch.  
  
The scene looks strangely intimate, and the sight of Clapa's big hands against Sihtric's delicate jawline sets off an unpleasant feeling of irrational possessiveness, but Finan is saved from any rash and impulsive action and subsequent embarrassment by Uhtred's horse coming to a halt next to his. Their lord doesn't let his impatience at the unexpected delay show, but he can't hide the jittery sweep of his eyes across the dark line of trees they just left, and the open meadow in-between that serves them on a silver platter to any archer hiding in the forest.  
  
“We cannot linger,” Uhtred says quietly, and yet there's steel beneath. It's like he's giving an order without actually saying it, but Finan understands anyway. It's what makes the two of them such a force to be reckoned with.  
  
“I can take him,” he offers without hesitation, even though his every fibre is resisting against the thought of burdening Sihtric with his presence when he is clearly at his most vulnerable and unable to speak up against the idea of them sharing a horse. But it is the only option they have, and he forcefully wrestles down any discomfort. “Ida is strong enough to carry two of us lightweights.”  
  
Uhtred gives a satisfied nod, unaware of the effort behind Finan's offer, and slips off his horse to help Clapa. Together, they work quickly and quietly to tug Sihtric's boots from the stirrups and take him down from the saddle. His eyes are open now, but he can barely stand on his own, and his brothers in arms struggle for a moment to wrap Uhtred's fur-lined coat around his shoulders and lift him up into Finan's waiting arms. His loyal mare doesn't protest against the extra weight, but Finan expected no less from her. What worries him most is Sihtric's silence.  
  
He is definitely awake, Finan can feel him adjust to his hold until he's found a comfortable position that takes the least effort for himself and Finan to uphold, and for the horse to maintain the hurried pace Uhtred leads them into once again. And it's the position itself that should spark a comment, if being so close to him would not. Having Sihtric draped sideways across his lap is exactly how a husband would hold his new wife on their way home from the church, and were he conscious enough, Sihtric would surely complain about being treated like a blushing maiden. There's not a single word to be heard from him, though, and it unsettles Finan to an extent he wasn't prepared for.  
  
Without any ground for teasing bickering, their usual way of communicating, he is at a loss for what to say. Measured by the horrors he put Sihtric through, a simple _I'm sorry_ is not going to cut it, and neither is a laughable _I never wanted any of this to happen_. Having him so close, and yet as far away as never before, is much harder to handle than he’d like to admit. He can feel Sihtric hide his face beneath his jaw, can feel his shuddering breath whisper across his throat, and it takes every ounce of control he can yet muster not to say something meaningless he will surely regret later.  
  
  
\\-|-/  
  
  
Sihtric startles awake at the bickering between Uhtred and the night watch at the gate who claim they have orders not to let anyone through after nightfall. The sudden shift almost has them both topple off the horse, and it's only down to Finan's quick reflexes and Ida's endless patience that the two of them remain in the saddle. Sihtric exhales an impatient sigh as he settles again, obviously annoyed at being denied a warm bed after getting jostled around on a horse for so long. He still doesn't speak, and Finan tunes back in to the increasingly heated discussion at the gate. Uhtred has his hand on the hilt of Serpent-Breath now, and Clapa hovers close to his shoulder, axe already in hand, a clear foreboding of violence.  
  
Time to intervene before there's any bloodshed. “I have a man here who might not survive the night,” he abruptly cuts in, tired of this farce. Sihtric stills in his arms, most likely trying to help by looking properly close to dying, and Finan has to suppress a grin of approval. “If he doesn't and you are responsible, Lord Uhtred here will not be happy. And if Uhtred's not happy, the King is not happy, and you lot know the consequences of that. So you either let us in or we shall see what an unhappy Uhtred is prepared to do to keep the King from becoming unhappy, too.”  
  
The guards share uneasy glances between themselves, only half-cowed by his threats. When they yet falter for too long, Uhtred shrugs and finally draws his sword, and the guards scatter like a bunch of rabbits before a snake and busy themselves with opening the gate. His brothers in arms swing themselves back onto horseback, and Clapa reaches over to hit him on the shoulder once they're through the gate and back in Eoferwic. “Fine speech, my friend.”  
  
“I try.”  
  
“You should try more often,” Uhtred says, still fuming. “Think of the fights we could have won without even drawing weapons if you had only used your silver tongue!” Before Finan can get in a dig of his own, he points to a crossing ahead. “See Sihtric to rest and medicine, if needed. My own bed and wife are calling.”  
  
Finan shrugs, giving in easily. Even he isn't interested in fighting battles of wit at this ungodly hour. “Yes, lord.”  
  
“Wait,” Sihtric breathes, and his voice that hasn't been used for so long cracks on the short word. “I need a bath.”  
  
Now that, Finan did not expect. Keeping clean is not a top priority for warriors like them, used to spending days on horseback and nights in a tent if they're lucky or on the ground if they're not. Besides, Sihtric had been fortunate enough to avoid the worst of the mudslide. “You what now? That can wait till the morning.”  
  
Sihtric obviously has regained enough consciousness to become restless. Even Ida is starting to shift her weight from left to right now, impatient with the promise of feed and water and a warm stable so close. “No, it can't.”  
  
His slightly desperate tone puzzles Finan and cuts off the joke he was about to make. He exchanges a nonplussed look with Uhtred who raises an eyebrow, clearly leaving the decision to him. “Fine then.” He motions for his brothers to move on, and steers Ida down a narrow side street. “If you insist. But I doubt the ladies at the bathhouse will be happy to see us at this time of night.”  
  
He can feel Sihtric shake his head against his neck. “Take me down to the stream. That'll do.”  
  
Finan shrugs in response and steers Ida on, who grudgingly obeys. She punishes them with a mutinously uneven gait, but Sithric once again doesn't complain, so Finan doesn't correct her. After bearing the night's burdens without any protest, she is allowed to rebel a little, now that the chase is over. The sky is starting to lighten from a dark blue to a dirty grey, and he suddenly realizes how long he's been sitting in the saddle. A bone-deep weariness washes over him and he really isn't in the mood to stand by while Sihtric cleans up, but the decision of whether or not to stay is taken from him. Sihtric barely waits for Finan to pull Ida to a halt before he slips off the horse. He lands with a hiss, staggering for a moment, and Finan automatically moves to dismount.  
  
“No.” Sihtric holds up a hand to stop him, his voice clipped and lined with badly-concealed pain. “You go on.”  
  
“Are you-”  
  
“Just go!”  
  
Faced with such hostility, Finan can only yield – but he won't take it lying down. “If I find your drowned body later, I cannot be held responsible.”  
  
Sihtric scoffs, but doesn't deign to respond as he slowly hobbles down the empty landing to the water, pulling off his ruined clothes on the way. Finan turns Ida around in the direction of the stables, but the mare knows the way and doesn't need any prompting. Therefore, he seizes the chance to take a last look back over his shoulder, just to make sure Sihtric will, in fact, not be drowning on pride and freezing cold water. What he sees almost makes him pull on Ida's reigns to stop her after all.  
  
Sihtric's entire back is covered in bruises, some already black as night, some only developing in sickly shades of green and yellow, as if he'd been beaten repeatedly. The skin had broken in places where bones lay close to the surface, ragged red lines smeared with clotted blood marking particularly painful punches. And God only knows what else they did to him. A dizzying wave of rage and nausea hits him, and he has to fight the urge to go back and kill each and every one of those mercenaries all over again – this time, more creatively and much more slowly. But there's nothing he can do about it now, so it's only the guilt that remains when he turns his back on Sihtric.  
  
  
\\-|-/  
  
  
Their ever-growing army continues their preparations for the march on Dunholm, and the guilt stays with him as the following days smudge together into a seamless procession of work-eat-sleep-repeat, a weight in his gut like a swallowed stone. Contrary to what he feared, though, he doesn't need to face the blame just yet. Sihtric barely leaves his quarters. Only Hild is allowed to come close, and the two of them spend hours just sitting together well out of everyone's way. On the second day, Uhtred sits with them, and the lord later reports that they went over Dunholm's weaknesses one last time and that yes, Sihtric will be well enough to fight, and no, he will not stand back where it's safe.  
  
It is now that Finan truly misses Sihtric's company. It only occurs to him in his absence how closely and effortlessly they had been working together before, and he is so used to Sihtric's presence that he sometimes turns to address him, only to find the spot beside him empty. It is incredibly distracting, up to the point where sleep eludes him until the wee hours of the morning even though he is utterly exhausted. So he keeps staring up at the ceiling and wishing for things he pushed away mere days before.  
  
On the night before their army is to leave for Dunholm, his restlessness leads him on an aimless prowl through the streets of Eoferwic, but his mind won't settle. The town is quiet, Uhtred's strict ban on alcohol ahead of battle in full effect, and the watchmen he encounters are alert but just as restless, the air filled with anticipation of bloodshed and the clash of steel on steel. It does nothing to calm him down, and in his despair, he ends up in the church, the only truly warrior-free place in Eoferwic. He hasn't spend much time with prayers lately – never has, if he's honest with himself and with God –, but he's at the end of his rope and he thinks it can't hurt to try.  
  
It's Hild who finds him cowering before the altar, and true to her kind and generous heart of gold, she doesn't speak, simply sinks to her knees next to him and patiently waits for him to regain his composure. Which takes much longer than he'd like to admit. And it's not a slow process, either. It's sudden and jarring that he comes back to himself, like the moment when you wake from a nightmare screaming and fighting off shadows.  
  
Hild doesn't startle when he abruptly sits up and says, with as much scorn as he can muster, “Sometimes, I think I am one with the devil.”  
  
“What makes you say that?”  
  
Her tone is pleasant and mildly curious, unperturbed by his blatant blasphemy, and somehow, that makes everything so much harder to confess. “I did something truly terrible.”  
  
_The tree at his back was unyielding, and the bark was scratchy and uncomfortable, but Finan didn’t complain. He wasn't sure he would be able to support his weight on his own, seeing how much ale he'd had. Sihtric was not better off, it seemed. He was leaning heavily against him as his long fingers, made clumsy by too much birch wine, fiddled with the fastenings on his trousers. His own were already loose, hanging low on his lean hips, and Finan absentmindedly thought they must make a curious picture. Only, no one could see them out here, hiding in the dark a few paces beyond the ring of light that marked their camp. The laughter and loud voices of their brothers in arms would cover any treacherous sounds they might make._  
  
_They had done this before, once or twice. They would drink until they possessed an armour of courage made of ale and wine, then make a feeble excuse of gathering more firewood and, in a final step, find a safe place and forget all about firewood. It was nothing unusual in the large warbands travelling the country, where willing women were few and far between. It had been much less of a surprise that Sihtric and Finan had formed such a loose and temporary partnership. They had gotten along right from the start, settling into an easy kind of friendship in no time at all, and Finan knew he appreciated Sihtric's body just as much as his open and diligent character._  
  
_Sihtric made a slightly slurred sound of triumph when the knot he'd been tugging at for the past few minutes suddenly came loose. But he didn't immediately shove a hand inside his trousers as Finan had expected. Instead, he pushed back just far enough that he could look him in the eye. Then he smiled, as gentle and unguarded as Finan had never seen it before. “I want to be yours,” he started, and his voice was surprisingly clear, unwavering. “And I want you to be mine.”_  
  
_Finan could only stare at him dumbly. This, they had never done before. This was very much unusual in the warbands he had been travelling with. Releasing tension was one thing, declaring loyalty and faithfulness another. His stomach sank, opening up a bottomless pit filled with old scars, old pain, and old fears. And when Sihtric leaned in to kiss him like a lover would, straight on the mouth – something they hadn't done before, either – Finan was not prepared for the sudden rush of longing. He wanted and wanted and wanted, even though he knew he couldn't have it, and it ignited a terrible anger that was only fed by the ale still running high in his blood._  
  
Hild vaguely motions skyward, interrupting the scene repeating itself in his head. “Surely it's not so bad you cannot count on his forgiveness.”  
  
“It's not God’s forgiveness I need.”  
  
_He abruptly broke the kiss and pulled Sihtric around so he was facing the tree. Sihtric let himself be manhandled, and his wobbly laughter suggested he still thought they were on the same page. Which they were certainly not. “You can take it without owning me,” he hissed as he crowded him close to the tree. Sihtric froze, suddenly realizing what was happening, but he didn't try to break free. He stood stock-still, hands braced against the bark with his head hung low, as if he were still a slave, used to taking punishment without resistance._  
  
_The thought sobered Finan up so quickly he couldn't see straight for a moment, and he took a staggering step back. Sihtric didn't dare move, lest he provoke another bout of unreasonable rage, and Finan suddenly felt sick. Intent on gaining as much distance as possible from his almost-mistake, he couldn't get away quickly enough, stumbling through the woods until he could be sure he was utterly alone. And then, with only darkness for company, he bent over and heaved until all the ale was gone from his body and he had no more excuse to give._  
  
Hild's eyes narrow, and Finan wonders what she and Sihtric have been talking about. If he shared that dreadful moment with her. But with Hild, you never know, she may not even need a detailed description to catch on. She is a woman, therefore perceptive by nature, and her mind is quick and pragmatic – there's little that escapes her.  
  
“Is this about Sihtric?”  
  
The name alone makes his breath catch, and he can see it is all the confirmation Hild needs. He can't help but admire her anew, even though very few surpass her in the esteem he holds her in. “You would have made a fine seer,” he says and gives her a crooked smile.  
  
The smile she returns to him is half-amused, half-sympathetic. “Seeress, if you please.”  
  
It draws a surprised chuckle from him, and she joins readily enough, but it is subdued just as quickly. Now that he started, the words push up from his very core, they gather behind his teeth and flood his mouth like a foul taste. It's like a dam has broken, and he can't drain the water quickly enough that is threatening to drown him.  
  
“You hit the nail straight on the head, though,” he begins, then abruptly stops again. Hild is a woman of the church, and the church is promising hell for anyone not fitting into the narrow concept of husband and wife. She is one of his dearest companions, a formidable warrior and even better counsellor, but her faith is the pillar her life is built on. As open-minded as she may be towards pagan ways and beliefs, and the people following it, that will never change.  
  
“You will face no judgement from me.”  
  
Once again, her insight unsettles him. “Jesus Christ, woman, your mind powers scare me sometimes.” Hild raises a disapproving eyebrow at him, but doesn't berate him for stalling the inevitable. She knows he will talk eventually. He really wants to after all. And so he does. “I rejected him in the worst way possible. And when he left with that whore-” He pauses a moment to let the rage settle that the mention of that _bitch_ ignites. Woman or not, if she shows her face to him again, no matter when or where, death will definitely follow. “-he was trying to get back at me for that. None of us were with him when they came for him, he didn't stand a chance. At Dunholm, they would have tortured him to death, as slowly as possible, just because I let him down. His blood would have been on my hands.”  
  
Hild quickly reaches over to put her hands over his. He squeezes back so hard it must surely hurt her, but she doesn't let it show. “But it isn't.”  
  
“Not literally, no.” He abruptly pulls his hands away from her touch and crosses his arms, face turned away from her. “But what I did to him...” The words get stuck in his throat, and he has to swallow a few times to tug them free. “I might as well have shoved a knife between his ribs. Had I treated him like a whore, it would have been bad enough. But I treated him like a _slave_ , like a bastard such as _Kjartan_ would have. Or has, for all I know! It is a worse fate than death, Hild, a fate he should have escaped the moment he betrayed his turd of a father and bound his life to Uhtred. And I brought it back to him.”  
  
The memory is like a physical ache, spreading from his heart to every part of his body, and even Hild is stunned into silence by his outburst and doesn't dare approach him. “I'm sorry,” Finan chokes out, and she doesn't reply, all too aware that he isn't talking to her. “I'm so sorry.”  
  
He doesn't cry. He is still a seasoned warrior after all, and Hild is still a fellow sister in arms. He will not cry in front of her, or anybody else for that matter. He is close, though, closer than he had been on Sverri's boat of death and despair. He can feel the tears lurking hot behind his eyes, but by sheer power of will, they remain dry. “For the sake of the devil”, he swears, and Hild tuts softly, her saint-like patience finally wearing thin.  
  
“Sorry,” he says sheepishly, and she knows he doesn't mean it this time. She shakes her head, annoyed, but pushes her shoulder against his in a silent show of all-is-forgiven. From her, at least. There's still another mountain he has to climb.  
  
“Whatever happened between you, he will surely forgive you. I don't doubt that.”  
  
He sighs, but doesn't waste any more words on her strange gift of thought-guessing. There is just no point. “I don't even know if I want him to.” Hild frowns, confused. Finan can’t decide whether he makes sense even to himself. “I mean, I would do whatever it takes to earn his forgiveness, but what if-”  
  
_They had known each other since childhood, and their bond had been built on the guileless and unshakeable trust only children are capable of. They had been young and stupid and thought themselves to be invincible. They were warriors after all, strong and quick and healthy, the kind every lord wanted in their household troops. They were feared and respected and appeared as close as brothers – and yet, the suspicion that their relationship went far beyond the borders of brotherhood was always simmering beneath the surface. But surely they were far too valuable in their battle strength to be sacrificed to the venom dripping from the mouths of priests and abbots?_  
  
“Finan-”  
  
His surprise at the appearance of the long-buried memory is genuine and hits him like a sucker punch to the gut. He hasn't thought about that day for years, but he realizes now how close he'd been on the night he broke the trust between Sihtric and himself into tiny little pieces. And now that the walls around those memories have crumbled after all, he suddenly remembers every detail.  
  
_The morning breeze swaying the trees above him, the dew making the moss and underbrush beneath his feet slippery, the bright colours of the pheasants he caught. The pride, the happiness, the shock when he returned to the village to find_ his _body in the street, torn and mangled beyond recognition. The mob had still been there, led by a cluster of priests and monks, shouting insults and curses at the remains of a man whose soul had already left. Strands of_ his _long black hair, matted with blood and dirt, covered_ his _face, and Finan was grateful for it. Still, even when stripped of mail and armour and sword, he could recognize the clothes_ he _had been wearing that morning when he left for his hunt. For a long minute or two, Finan stood rooted to the spot, and he knew he was facing the choice between revenge and signing his own death warrant or escape and saving his own life while the crowd was still distracted._  
  
“Finan!” Hild sounds angry now, and he looks at her, surprised to find that she indeed looks as furious as a Valkyrie on a battlefield. “You're doing it again.”  
  
_Sometimes, he wished he had been brave enough to choose revenge._  
  
It almost tumbles out of him then, the worst secret he has forever been carrying around like a plague that is blackening his heart instead of his skin. But when he opens his mouth to tell it, the words turn to ash on his tongue. He blinks and refocuses on Hild's angry face, and his sluggish mind reminds him there has been an accusation he didn’t understand. “Doing what?”  
  
“Treating him like a slave!” He rears back as if she had slapped him across the face, but she doesn't let up. “As if he didn't have a mind of his own. He can decide for himself if he wants to forgive you, and he will do it whether you like it or not.” Finan drops his gaze, properly chastened, but Hild is not finished yet. Her voice, however, is softer when she continues, almost sad. “Is he not worthy of you?”  
  
“Worthy of-” The thought is so ridiculous he can't even bring himself to finish it, bearing his teeth in a humourless smirk instead. “Woman, are you mad?” She jumps up onto her feet, enraged, and he quickly follows suit. “That's not what this is about!”  
  
Her hands ball into fists, and Finan thinks that in her fury, even Hild has forgotten they are having this row in a church. “It is, though, isn't it?!”  
  
“No.” His denial sounds weak and indecisive even to his own ears. She can hear it, too. The triumphant gleam in her eyes betrays her. “He didn’t have to prove himself to me.”  
  
“And yet you asked it of him.”  
  
He opens his mouth to object, but nothing comes out. It does make sense. Sihtric had worked hard to gain their respect and their trust, Uhtred's as much as his, and they certainly hadn't made it easy for him. The youngest member of their raggle-taggle band of misfits had always had to work twice as hard to earn their approval, and he had waited just long enough to be entirely sure of their acceptance before he offered himself to Finan and, ultimately, put everything on the line. In turning down his offer as carelessly as he did, Finan had not only rejected Sihtric as a lover, but also as a brother in arms deserving of the respect a proper decline would have warranted.  
  
He suddenly recalls the moment when he realized his mistake, if only subconsciously and drunk out of his mind, but he remembers it so vividly he can almost taste the bile on his tongue again, guilt and self-hatred tearing his guts apart. And even now, in denying Sihtric a vote in deciding whether or not to forgive him, he is rejecting him all over again.  
  
“I have,” he finally agrees, his voice low and hoarse. All the strength seems to drain from his body all at once, and he sinks down into a crouch with a groan. “How am I going to make this right?”  
  
“Well...” Hild hooks her hand beneath his elbow and steers him up onto one of the benches intended for prayer. “That depends on what you _want_ to do.”  
  
Finan huffs and pulls at his beard, frustrated. “I don't want us to end up on a pyre.”  
  
Despite the poorly veiled admission of what truly lies at the heart of the matter, she doesn’t startle, doesn't pull her hand back, and he angles his arm closer to his chest to show his gratitude for the comfort it gives him. They sit in silence for a while, lost in their own thoughts, and Finan takes slow and deep breaths to calm himself. He is not known to fret easily, and he doesn’t plan on making a habit of it, not even in the safe company of Hild.  
  
Who seems to have reached a satisfying conclusion to her thoughts, if her decisive nod is anything to go by. “There are two paths you can tread here,” she begins, face serious and pensive. “The first is, you turn him down properly and respectfully. The second is, you fight for him.” She pauses for a moment, for effect maybe. “But neither path should be chosen or denied out of fear.”  
  
She doesn't know what she is talking about, not really. But still her words stir something in him, a strange and sudden epiphany. It is painful and damaging to his pride to acknowledge the amount of fear he has been carrying around with him, even more painful to acknowledge the source of it. But now that he stopped running long enough to consider a different choice, he can feel how tired he is of it. And yet, the vehemence with which he consciously rejects the first path comes as a surprise to him, and the overwhelming approval of the second as well. He knows which way to go without any doubt, just like he knew what his dominant hand was as a child, which weapon to favour as a young man, which lord to follow as a warrior. His whole life boils down to natural and impulsive choices such as these, and it has served him well so far.  
  
He didn't expect this decision to come just as easily to him, considering how much resistance he had put up before. Which had not been an automatic choice, he can admit that much now, born from fear and cowardice rather than instinct. Even so, the whole ordeal of Sihtric's capture should have shown him how right he'd been to be cautious, to keep Sihtric at arm's length, to spare himself any pain. But on the mad chase that followed, without knowing whether he was still alive, all Finan could think about was how much time he had wasted with decade-old guilt, how Sihtric could be taken from him in the blink of an eye, and he would have never been his to begin with.  
  
“Second path it is,” he says, and puts his hand over hers in the crook of his elbow, ridiculously afraid she might pull it away now that he confirmed his choice out loud. She doesn't, merely leans closer to him, and Finan exhales slowly, relieved. “Now, what's your advice, oh great seeress?”  
  
A door behind the altar opens right then and a monk appears on the threshold. He startles, probably not expecting any company, and then stares suspiciously at their embrace, much too intimate for a nun and a wild Irishman. There's no mistaking that he heard Finan's last words. Anything even distantly related to any pagan beliefs is upsetting for the monks, especially in this God-fearing place, Finan has learned, but he can't resist to add insult to injury.  
  
He turns to Hild, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, and her glare of warning does nothing to deter him. “Tell me, what did the runesticks show you?”  
  
Hild sighs loudly, which is almost a groan, and turns towards the monk. “Father, I assure you-” The offended click of the door cuts her off, and she is left looking at an empty sanctuary. “That was unnecessary, Finan.”  
  
He can't help but snicker at the put out look on her face. “I don't think so.” Taking a deep breath, he forces himself to return to the serious topic at hand. “Runesticks or not, is there any counsel you would give me? A simple apology will not do.”  
  
“Maybe this time, you need to prove yourself to him.”  
  
“Easier said than done.”  
  
A small smile is gathering in the corner of her mouth. “Since his return, he has not yet braided his hair again, has he?”  
  
It is a brilliant idea, an appreciation of Sihtric's heritage and an act of repentance Sihtric will know does not come easy to Finan. And it can be done just between the two of them, without any public spectacle. But the meaning of it isn't lost on Finan. “A great commitment.”  
  
“Anything less will see you rejected.”  
  
“True.” Finan will not have anyone say he ever did anything half-heartedly. Despite the defining flaw of that plan. “I don't know how to braid.”  
  
Hild's laughter rings like a bell, and she quickly smothers it with a hand, horrified to have disturbed the solemn peace of the church with such a joyous sound. “I will show you, Finan the Agile.”  
  
  
\\-|-/  
  
  
The idea doesn't seem just as ingenious anymore when he tries not to let himself be deterred by the incredulous stare of the Lady Gisela. “You need what from me, Finan?”  
  
His cheeks grow hot then, and he actually considers just laughing it off as a joke. But Hild is an unyielding presence at his back, and her finger jabs him painfully between the ribs where the lady can't see. He barely keeps from squirming away, and it distracts him, so the moment stretches on and the opportunity to turn it all into a joke is lost. “A comb, lady. Hild here-” He glares at her briefly. “-told me you had one I could surely borrow.”  
  
Gisela raises an eyebrow as if she didn't understand, but her eyes glint with a mischief that tells him she simply enjoys making him uncomfortable. She gives his shorn hair a pointed look. “Are you sure it would be a sufficient weapon to do battle with that lion's mane of yours? I could offer a very sharp shaving blade instead.”  
  
He grits his teeth. “No, thank you.”  
  
Hild jabs him again. He crosses his arms in an attempt not to return the favour in the presence of the lady, and the two women exchange a glance over his shoulder. Gisela's face suddenly softens and she reaches out to touch his shoulder and bends close as if to confide a secret. “I will give you what you asked for. Wait here.”  
  
She quickly disappears into her chambers, and Finan seizes the chance to finally jab Hild back. With all the braiding practice they spent most of the morning on, it probably hurts him more than her. “I made a fool of myself in front of the lady, and what for?”  
  
Hild crosses her arms in turn. “You would do whatever it takes, those were your words.”  
  
“Well, yes. Take over watch duty, commission a new sword, slay Kjartan, anything a _warrior_ would do to appease another warrior. Not ask my Lord Uhtred's wife for a _comb_!”  
  
“What a shame. It's such a beautiful comb.”  
  
Finan is immediately back to grasping at his fleeting manners, and turns to Gisela with his head bowed so he won't have to see the mirth on her face which he can hear in her voice. “Forgive me, lady.”  
  
“There's nothing to forgive.”  
  
She hands him the comb, wooden with intricate carvings curling around the hilt, and he quickly takes it, anxious to get out of there. She doesn't let go, though, and he looks up at her questioningly. Gisela waits for another long moment to be sure she has his attention, then she holds out her other hand to him. Nestled in her palm, there are four silver beads, shiny and new. The patterns are clearly pagan in origin, beautifully crafted. They must be worth a small fortune.  
  
“Lady-”  
  
She sharply shakes her head once to cut him off and he obediently snaps his mouth shut. “This is my gift to you, and I will not take it back.”  
  
At a loss for words, he bows low over their still joined hands. “Thank you, lady.”  
  
“Don't. It's no less than you deserve. Now go and tame that mane of yours.”  
  
  
\\-|-/  
  
  
With hindsight, Finan should have brought his sword. Then again, it would probably have been useless against the glare Sihtric greets him with when he enters his quarters and unexpectedly finds Finan waiting for him. The look of unpleasant surprise shifts to betrayal when Sihtric turns to Hild, who is hovering in the doorway and trying very hard – and failing – not to appear too victorious. “You planned this.”  
  
It's a statement, not a question, but Hild, unshakeable as ever, is not fazed by the accusation in Sihtric's voice. “You need to talk,” she says, quietly but emphatically. “Any of us, of you, could die tomorrow, so you must resolve this now or you might never get the chance.”  
  
And then she's gone. The door shuts behind her with no sound at all, and silence falls between them like a heavy fog. Sihtric watches him with hooded eyes, but Finan can see the storm of emotions brewing, can see that his brother in arms can barely stand being alone in a room with him. And yet, just then, something loosens in Sihtric's tense stance. He still looks ready to fight, to defend himself with word and blade, but at the same time, he seems to accept that there's no way around this conversation.  
  
“Say what you came here to say,” he finally says. The hostility is now gone from his voice, and there's only weariness left. “And I will listen.”  
  
“I want to apologize.”  
  
Eyebrows knitting together in a frown, it looks like Sihtric is about to scoff at his words, but then he seems to think better of it. “Go on.”  
  
“The way I treated you was unacceptable and not-” Finan flounders for a moment, trying to think of a less pretentious way of saying this, but in the end, he is forced to go with what he has. “-not befitting your standing. You deserved better.”  
  
It is impossible to determine what is going on in Sihtric's head, but the ice in his gaze has not thawed yet. “I already knew that,” he says and pointedly clears the doorway. “If that is all...”  
  
Despite his testy tone, he will not look at Finan, and strangely enough, that gives him the courage to stand fast. “No, that isn't all.” He takes a deep breath to steady himself, but it does him no good. This moment feels much too big for the few simple words he is about to speak. But if he doesn’t do it now, his chosen path will be lost to him. “I would accept your offer, if it was still standing.”  
  
Sihtric considers his words for a few endless seconds, then he shifts his stance, fingers flexing around the hilt of his sword. “You deliberately hurt me. You deliberately _demeaned_ me.”  
  
“Yes, I know, and I-”  
  
“Am I simply to believe you will not do it again?”  
  
“No, but-”  
  
An annoyed groan cuts him off. “Get out.” Sihtric half-draws his sword as if to enforce his order with threats of bodily harm, then slams it back into the scabbard, clearly agitated. Finan almost wishes this would turn to violence – that has always been easier for him to handle than words. “First you reject me, then you glare at me when seeing me with others-”  
  
“Well, to be fair,” Finan quickly interjects, “I was right about her.”  
  
Sihtric ignores him. “And now you ask me to turn over a new leaf with you. I don't understand what it is you want from me!”  
  
“I want you to be safe!”  
  
Sihtric's appalled face tells him that was the wrong thing to say. “Like a caring wife? I would _not_ sit behind the hearth, cooking for you and mending garments back together, and wait for you to return from battle! I am a warrior, like you, and I would not-”  
  
“I know!” Finan tears at his non-existent hair. “Just let me- that came out wrong!”  
  
“Did it?” Sihtric puts his hands on his hips, still fuming. For the sake of a petty argument, Finan almost tells him that like this, he looks like a wife alright. “I can't wait to hear how you meant it to come out.”  
  
“Everyone would use this against us.” Sihtric frowns at that, and it's obvious he thinks Finan is highly exaggerating. “It may not be considered a sin with the Danes, but in England, in God-fearing, pious-as-all-hell England, this will land you on a pyre. If you're lucky. If you're not, they make an example of you. Of us. Uhtred has many enemies, and as his right-hand men, they want our heads on a spike just as much. We couldn't trust anyone with this.”  
  
“I don't need anyone else to know.”  
  
Finan quickly shakes his head. Sihtric hasn't seen what he has seen, and how could he? In many ways, Danes live their lives so differently from Saxon Christians they might as well belong to another world. Finan can often see it in Uhtred's stubbornness when his Danish side runs riot and stomps its foot and demands unbridled freedom, and he can see it now in Sihtric. “Are you certain? Not Uhtred? Not Hild? Not Clapa?”  
  
Sihtric exhales in a rush, annoyed at being outwitted, and yet too proud to acknowledge it. “You see enemies where there are none.”  
  
“You don't know the Saxons like I do. There would be enemies _everywhere_.”  
  
Sihtric mulishly clings to the notion that he is overreacting, but Finan senses he also made him pause. A long moment of silence passes by, and then Sihtric visibly settles, his restless shifting ceasing. “So,” he begins, almost cautiously. “You were afraid.”  
  
It automatically makes Finan bristle. _I am not afraid of anything_ , a proud voice in the back of his head loudly insists. There is, however, no point in lying, nor in saving face. “I was.”  
  
“Of seeing me hurt.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Now, Sithric seems to be at a loss. “But then you hurt me yourself?”  
  
It is the ultimate question, the one they will always circle back to, and yet it is the only one Finan cannot answer. He spreads his hands in a helpless gesture. “I wish I could tell you why. I wish I could-” He cuts himself off when his words threaten to topple over each other in his haste to get this done with as little harm as possible, to Sihtric's pride as well as his own. “There is no excuse for what I did. I was confused, and angry, and what is more, completely sloshed, and you surprised me with-” A kiss. Thinking about it now, it is so ridiculous he can't say it out loud. Sihtric is not stupid, though, he can guess where he was going, and the corner of his mouth pulls into an amused, but reluctant smile. “Oh, shut it.”  
  
It only serves to trigger the opposite. Sihtric's eyes suddenly brighten and then he bursts out laughing, his fingers digging into his sides to hold off stitches. “Finan-” It comes out breathless, and strangely happy, and it makes something twist painfully in Finan's chest. He hasn't heard Sihtric say his name like this in a long time, and he realizes now how much he missed it. “Finan, you nonsense-spewing bastard!”  
  
Finan is pouting, he knows it, but he can't help it. He just poured his heart out and as a reward, he gets a faceful of ridicule. Sihtric seems to realize it, too, because he visibly forces down his laughter and raises his hands briefly to placate him. “Forgive me. I cannot imagine you being afraid, and of a kiss no less.”  
  
“I wasn't afraid of the kiss,” Finan grumbles, “but of the _consequences_.”  
  
Something strange happens then. All the lingering amusement bleeds out of Sihtric's body and his gaze turns sharp as he cocks his head to the side as if to listen closely. Finan has seen him do this often enough when they were on the hunt together, has memorised the sudden shift from jokes and cheer to deadly silence as soon as their prey was near. He knows Sihtric sees and hears a lot more than most – that is why he is Uhtred's first choice man to scout ahead –, and he fears he let him hear more than he meant to.  
  
“Ah,” Sihtric says at last, and the tiny word, more an exhale really, confirms that somehow, some of Finan's fiercely guarded memories bled through in his words and somehow made sense to Sihtric. “I see.”  
  
He doesn't ask the obvious question – _what happened_ – and God bless him for that. But the look he gives him is soft and open, and it triggers the flight instinct that preceded all the wrong decisions in Finan's life, the entirety of everything he is not proud of. He is torn between the urge to run and the desire to linger, and his hesitation must surely show in the tense posture of his body and the pained grimace on his face.  
  
With all the experience he already gathered, Sihtric can read him like the tracks on forest ground, and he doesn't move so as not to startle him when he says, “Stay.” And then, much more quietly, “Please.”  
  
Somehow, the gentle word is much more powerful than a shouted order, and Finan finds himself unable to run any longer, and he's equally embarrassed and relieved. Their roles have reversed, yet again, and he isn't sure how to deal with it. The whole situation deviated from his carefully crafted plan very early on. Which reminds him... “I not only came to apologize,” he says, as if everything in between his apology and the present didn't happen. “But to offer this.”  
  
And then he pulls the comb and the silver beads from the leather pouch on his belt. Sihtric immediately takes half a step back, as if Finan had presented him with a poisonous snake instead, and his eyes are wild as he looks at him in disbelief. “You must know,” he says, then stops abruptly.  
  
Finan is irrationally pleased to see him unsettled for a change. “Yes, I know.”  
  
Sihtric frowns, clearly not convinced he really knows what exactly it is he is offering. “With the Danes, this is a very intimate proposal, shared only between siblings or husband and wife.”  
  
“Yes, I _know_!” Sihtric is still staring at him like he suddenly declared he will join a nunnery and serve God in chastity. But he can't say what he really wants to say, not yet, so he reverts to a simpler truth. “You can't go into battle with your hair like that. It's going to get in your eyes.”  
  
Sihtric gives him another dubious look, then shrugs. “Fine.”  
  
The rather quick acceptance surprises Finan, and it takes a moment for him to skip over all the other points he had prepared to make and proceed to the next step. As he takes a seat on the edge of Sihtric's bed and motions for him to sit down on the low footstool before him, he wonders what made Sihtric agree so readily to an act that is considered so utterly private among his people. He sincerely hopes it is not pity.  
  
“I didn't know you could braid,” Sihtric says, then pauses when Finan starts brushing his long hair to the side and not to the back as he usually wears it. “Or can you? You're brushing the wrong way.”  
  
“No, I'm not,” Finan replies doggedly, only a little annoyed that Sihtric is questioning him before he can even get started properly. “Hild taught me. Wait and see.”  
  
“Yes, lord.”  
  
Sihtric is obviously mocking him by choosing the deferential voice he uses to answer Uhtred, and Finan gets back at him by pulling hard on a knot the comb caught in. “Shut it, or your braids will turn out crooked.”  
  
Sihtric protests the abuse with an exaggerated ow, but Finan can see him grinning even through the curtain of hair he has gathered carefully on the side of his face. Cracking his knuckles and taking a deep breath, he sets the comb aside and starts dividing the strands just like Hild showed him. He begins with smaller braids close to Sihtric's scalp, taking extra care to make them tight and durable, then merges those into bigger plaits, until there are only three broad strands left to braid along the curve of his ear and down over the fall of his shoulder.  
  
At first, his hands are shaking slightly, the soft strands running through his suddenly clumsy fingers like water, too thin and too smooth to grasp properly. But the rhythm builds quickly enough, and the monotonous work calms the nerves pooling in his gut – until he remembers there's more to this than simple braiding. His gaze catches on the shiny beads lying next to him on the bed, and he realizes he doesn't know if there is a strict set of rules that determine the placement of the ornaments. In the middle of setting up the bigger plaits, he pauses a moment to ponder over the unexpected issue.  
  
Sihtric, who has held admirably still until now, turns his head a tiny fraction. “What's wrong?”  
  
Finan huffs, annoyed at his own indecision, but then settles for simply asking. There can be no harm in seeking guidance. “Is there a given pattern for these beads?”  
  
It does sound as ridiculous out loud as it did in his head. Sihtric, however, doesn't laugh. “It depends on the clan. Some have rules, some don't, and they differ from settlement to settlement.”  
  
The slight strain on his voice suggests he is thinking about how he himself never had a clan he truly belonged to, and Finan hurries to distract him. “We'll make our own rules then.”  
  
“We would have to wait a long time to apply them to you.”  
  
The melancholy is gone from Sihtric’s voice, and Finan relaxes again as he chooses a random spot for the first bead. “No no no, I am _not_ going to join your band of long-haired bastards.” He dramatically shudders at the thought. “Over my dead body.”  
  
Sihtric chuckles, but doesn't respond, and Finan falls back into the soothing and mind-numbing rhythm of dividing and tightening strands and threading beads. The joints of his fingers start to ache about half way through, but he doesn't stop. When Hild had warned him about the pain, he had laughed at the thought of braiding – a child's game – becoming unbearable, but he realizes now what she meant. The increasing cramps in his hands make it almost impossible to keep his grip on the strands, but the threat of watching his last hour's work unfold within seconds gives him the strength to pull through. And once he's reached the last and easiest braid over Sihtric's shoulder, he breathes a sigh of relief and allows himself a moment of rest, the remaining three strands tucked safely between his fingers.  
  
“What changed?”  
  
“What?” Finan’s mind, blissfully empty of thoughts while he was busy braiding, moves entirely too slowly to fill him in on all the possible meanings of Sihtric's out-of-the-blue question. But then something clicks, and he suddenly knows what it is he’s asking. “Nothing.”  
  
“What do you mean, nothing?”  
  
“Nothing changed, for me.”  
  
It's easier to admit it now that Sihtric can't look him in the eye while he's saying it – but that doesn't mean he won't try. He twists his head, trying to catch his gaze. “And yet you-”  
  
Finan makes a disgruntled noise as Sihtric's hair slips through his aching fingers with the sudden movement and he yanks on the few strands he's trying to bind together to stop him. “I was a coward. Let's leave it at that.”  
  
“But-”  
  
“Sihtric.”  
  
It's a weary sigh at best, a tired whine at worst, but it makes Sihtric shut his mouth. Finan can feel him settle again in an effort to keep his head still, and he stops braiding for a moment to gently scratch his scalp beneath the plaits. Sihtric gives a pleased hum and leans into his touch, and Finan thinks, _finally_ , some actual progress. Until now, the agreement they had reached has still felt like a brittle truce that might fall apart at the slightest provocation. Much like a log-rolling between Danes and Saxons that goes from taking solemn oaths to swinging axes in the blink of an eye. Being able to touch Sihtric like this and have his touch welcomed in return is a crucial step towards forgiveness.  
  
But Sihtric hasn't lowered his guard completely. Not yet. Finan respects that, admires it even, and he is indeed more than ready to work hard to re-earn his trust. He still loves a good fight after all, loves the unyielding sound of steel against steel, the thrill of triumphing in combat, and his respect of Sihtric's healthy suspicion stems from the same place. He loves how Sihtric doesn't take it in stride when he's being a fool, calling him out on it instead, loves how he challenges him constantly. After all, if his brother in arms was too easily spooked or insulted, this bond between them would break before it could even build.  
  
“Where are your thoughts?”  
  
Finan shakes his head, smiling. Sometimes, he wonders how Sihtric can be such an excellent tracker and hunter even though he often doesn’t know when to be silent. “With you.”  
  
“Heh. Flatterer.”  
  
“I have no need of flattery. My ravishing looks do all the work for me.”  
  
Sihtric laughs at that, low and surprisingly relaxed, and his shoulders are shaking with the force of it. “That is true.”  
  
“Now you're doing it.” Before Sihtric can pull them both into full-blown bickering, Finan tightens the last knot on the leather cord he wove into the last few inches to hold the braid together. “There. Finished.”  
  
Sihtric eagerly raises both hands to trail along the plaits, feeling for any uneven loops or loose ends, but he seems to find neither, for he nods approvingly. “Well done. Thank you.”  
  
Finan finds he doesn't want to stop touching him, now that he knows Sihtric will not shy away from him, so he lightly rests his hands on his shoulders and leans forward to speak quietly and close to his ear. “You're welcome.”  
  
Again, Sihtric twists his head to look at him. There's nothing holding him back now, so all of a sudden, they are very close to one another. They are so close Finan can see the decision being made in his bright eyes before Sihtric even moves, and he doesn't waste any time holding back. They meet in the middle, but the kiss is still hesitant, still asking for permission either way. Finan tangles a hand in Sihtric's new braids and deepens the kiss, trying to convey without words that he is not planning on ducking out this time. Sihtric doesn't miss the sign and turns on the chair to answer in kind.  
  
As exhilarating as it is, it is also over way too quickly. In his haste to bring Sihtric closer, Finan loops an arm around his shoulders, but instead of leaning into him, Sihtric tenses all over and breaks away from the kiss with a choked gasp. It's only then that Finan remembers the bruises, and the guilt comes crashing back. He moves away, or rather tries to, because Sihtric won't let him, holding on to his leather jerkin and touching their foreheads together.  
  
“Just a moment,” Sihtric whispers, breathless. “The mercenaries, they-”  
  
“I know,” Finan says quickly, sparing him the indignity to explain. “Will you be ready to fight like this?”  
  
Sihtric gives him a dark look, but doesn't respond. He doesn't need to. Finan is entirely aware the question was foolish. Of course he will not stay back and watch them take Dunholm just because of a few bothersome but nowhere near lethal scratches and bruises. He's been waiting many months for this moment, all his life probably, and not even an army of Einherjar will keep him from it. “Just don't go to the Corpsehall without me,” Finan tries, poorly, to pretend that is what he actually meant to say.  
  
It works, if not the way he intended to. Sihtric doesn't buy the false front, but is distracted by something else. “You would choose Valhalla over Heaven,” he asks, astonished. His grasp of Christian beliefs is only cursory, but he has heard enough priests preach about this particular matter, and he knows it is the ultimate goal of every Christian to reach Heaven. (He still hasn't quite figured out why anyone would prefer choirs and clouds and eternity-long sermons to drinking and feasting in Valhalla, though.)  
  
Sihtric looks eager and hopeful and everything Finan was so desperate to avoid, but there's no going back now, even if he wanted to. “Can't yield the best part of being dead to Uhtred and you, now can I?”  
  
Sihtric doesn't really look dispirited by his bad attempt at joking, if the pleased grin is anything to go by. If it weren't so convenient, Finan would be cautious of his skill of seeing right through his smoke and mirrors to the truth beyond. “You are full of shit,” Sihtric tells him gravely, and his fond voice takes all the sting out of the insult. But then he touches the hammer amulet he wears around his neck and the fondness is gone when he speaks again. “I will pray to Odin to spare us both the Corpsehall just yet, but to grant you entrance to Valhalla should the three Spinners decide it must be so.”  
  
Naturally, Finan has no idea what to say to that. He doesn't have to, though, for he is saved by a knock on the door. “Yes?”  
  
The door doesn't open. “The war council is gathering,” Hild's voice filters through the wood. “Uhtred asked for you.”  
  
“We'll be there.”  
  
A pause. “Will you... arrive together?”  
  
It is clear what she is truly asking, and that she doesn't dare ask outright while shouting through the door where anyone can hear her, and Finan can't help but smile. That woman. “Yes, we will.”  
  
“God be praised.” Smug, that one. Retreating footsteps, then silence once more.  
  
Sihtric is, more or less successfully, smothering his mirth with a hand across his mouth, but he can't keep it properly contained. “We will have to award her victory with an arm ring,” he says, voice still hitching with laughter. “A huge feat, to trick us into listening to each other.”  
  
Finan absentmindedly nods his consent, for Uhtred's call to war distracted him and drew his attention to the slaughter lurking on the horizon. “After Dunholm,” he promises, and he hates how that word immediately sucks all the joy out of Sihtric's handsome face, only to replace it with grim determination. “It will only encumber her in battle.”  
  
“After Dunholm,” Sihtric echoes and briefly touches their foreheads together again, returning the promise. Then he rises to his feet and offers Finan a hand up from the bed. He gladly takes it.  
  
  
\\-|-/  
  
  
Thank you very much for reading! :)


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